Dancing a Thin, Thin Line
by penned.in.sanity
Summary: He's pretty sure this was somewhat inevitable, but maybe fate made a wrong turn somewhere in this tent. DH1 extended dance scene. HHr.
1. Dance to the Hum of the Radio

**A/N:** Who hasn't written on this little scene? Nothing is mine, just thought I'd throw my own interpretation into the fire.

Disclaimer: All belongs to J.K. Rowling.

_ooooooooooo_

He'll lie in bed and think about this forever.

She'll lie in bed and over-analyze this forever.

_ooooooooooo_

He watches her, bent over form rocking silently back and forth on that step. The radio hums in the background and it's like his footsteps are claps of thunder he can't silence.

He feels his hand extend towards her, an offering, of what he's not sure. Her little hand slips into his own and she's pulled up off that step. Fumbling fingers of his graze the back of her pale neck, removing the weight of her fears all at once.

The necklace falls on to the table from his hand, forgotten for the first moment of this journey.

He guides her towards the center of the room, and dear god, he remembers why he never dances. Gripping her other hand, he pulls her to and fro, attempting to find the beat of melancholic song that begins to wrap around them. Her feet begin to give in, moving slightly as to ease his discomfort at dancing alone, but soon every other part of her follows, and he forgets.

She forgets all but his warm hands, strong, larger than her own, pulling her around the space. In and out, she twirls into his body and she's quite sure she's never been here before; this close, this warm, this light. She can see his smile reflected from her own, whole-hearted laughter joining in with the chorus.

It's only her and him. No world beyond this impenetrable bubble of soft music, swaying melodies, warm hands, and forgotten responsibilities. Someone else can save the world tonight. Tonight she's here, in this moment, holding on to him, a smile plastered on her face because it's just too absurd. Tonight he breathes her in and wishes for this moment to last forever because at least one thing in his life needs to be perfect.

Somewhere along the way, their joking dancing, full of flailing arms and stumbling twirls, meandered its way into something much more intimate. Bodies pressed all too close with heads bent on to each other's shoulders; they fit like a broken jigsaw puzzle, swaying to the beat of the melody that quickly slipping away into the silence. He pulls back slightly and catches her eye and a million questions explode into the space, into their bubble. The "what if's…" and "what could have's…" silence them; suffocate them because it's as if that necklace is linked around both of their necks. Shock settles into forgotten bubble and the world slowly crashes around both of them.

The radio continues to hum statically in the background, and they're both alone once more.

_oooooooooo_

He'll look back one day on that night and regret he didn't kiss her twice.

She'll look back one day on that night and regret she kissed him once.

_oooooooooo_

He leans on his bed, waiting for her to return, convinced that this night is never ending. The radio's static is beginning to comfort him, a fuzzy reminder that they are not the only two people in the world. His hands run over his face and his eyes close inadvertently. He's too damn tired to figure out why it hurts so much, but his resting eyes provide him no sleep. He can still her smiling, holding his hands, pressed against him, swaying in their bubble of contentment. It's as if they are in one of those snow globes; his mind shaking the memory to watch the music fall around them once again, to feel her once again.

The gentle rustling of the tarp alerts his ears and he can feel her enter the tent. Sitting up, his eyes flutter open to her. The frost bit her cheeks pink and the wind threw her hair every which way, tumbled curls falling haphazardly from her head. Her eyes look tired. Tired of the journey, tired of the hunt, tired of the sadness, tired of their game. They've been living on this thin, thin line for far too long.

His feet are moving him towards her before he realizes it, and then she's right there. His mouth opens as if to explain something, them, this, why, but he knows no words. She's only looking at him, waiting for him to say something, to tell her she's gone mental in this tiny tent.

He wants to tell her that this would've never happened if it weren't for the war. That they'd be back at Hogwarts right now, sipping butterbeer in the Great Hall. That Ron's arm would be slung around her shoulders comfortably pulling her against his side. That her ears would be filled with his obnoxiously loud laughter. That she and him would be firmly on one side of that line as they chatted across the table at dinner. And everything would be perfect.

She wants to tell him that they are so, so wrong. That she should be buried in her books right now, searching for something, anything to get them out of this. That he should be outside standing guard, watching for Snatchers. That Ron should be laying in the bed glued to the humming radio. That Ron should've been the one twirling her around the tent, making her feel utterly alive. That he and her should be planted on one definite side of that line. That everything that should be isn't, and everything is wrong.

But he can't ignore that gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach that no matter where they were, who was there, that somehow they'd still find themselves here, where all the "would be's…" and "should be's…" made a wrong turn. Teetering on that thin, thin line.

But she's not entirely convinced she doesn't enjoy that line, that she has, no matter who was there, no matter where they were.

All they can see is exhaustion. Failed words dead on their tongues.

The radio hums a static tune, soft and wavering. His hand extends once more, but she steps forward, mere centimeters apart. He watches them fall off that line into the abyss as she leans up and presses her lips against his.

And for a moment, he kisses her, and forgets the world once more. Her soft hand against his cheek, his hands running across her waist and back slowly, pulling her ever closer.

And for another moment, she kisses him, and lights ablaze. Her fingers tips grazing his stubbled cheek, his finger tips dancing across her back, pushing herself so much closer.

Tonight the world is forgotten twice, as her knees hit the edge of the bed she didn't remember moving towards, as he bends towards her on the bed he didn't remember climbing on to, as the radio hums a sad song in the background.

_oooooooo_

He'll remember this as he falls asleep at night.

She'll try to forget this as she falls asleep at night.

_oooooooo_

And the humble author asks you to review...


	2. And Perchance to Dream

A/N: I just couldn't help but to continue. Nothing belongs to me once more. By the way, the _italics _are dreams.

...

He doesn't quite remember the sun rising that morning.

She doesn't quite remember herself rising from his arms that morning.

...

The sun slips into the crack of the tent like liquid gold, coating them both in missed warmth despite the bitter cold still lingering outside. The canvas of the tent sways slightly back and forth in the wind, and it's so damn obvious they are alone. Night had blanketed the world in a comforting darkness, hiding the nothingness that starkly surrounded the little white tent.

Arm draped heavily around her, he's not sure if he's truly awake, that this hazy morning bathed in sunlight in nothing more than a mirage. She shifts slightly in sleep, subconsciously pulling the quilts around her, well, them, but he's still not so sure he's actually here, asleep next to her. Her steady breathing, delicate and somber, calms him like the ticking of a grandfather clock. Soon, he drifts back into sleep like a long lost lover, eluded too many times in the past months; all he wants is calm.

_She's standing there surrounded by white, snow lightly drifting towards the ground around her form and he's just watching her. She's in that cherry red dress from the wedding, the one he wouldn't admit he could stop staring at her in, with the wind playing softly with her golden curls. _

_He's extraordinarily aware of the absurdity of the situation, after all she must be freezing, but the cherry red, the golden yellow, the snowy white collide together in front of him. Beauty smacks him squarely in the face, detaching absurdity's grip on him. _

_She turns towards him, and that ever elusive smile is dancing upon her face with eyes so bright he's already walking towards her. And just as he reaches her, he extends his hand to her, and the song, that song, begins to hum from all the trees around them._

_Then there's no more forest of white, white snow, and that cherry red dress is gone, and there's only the tent, and them, twirling, swaying, moving to that unmistakable beat in a whirly haze of time. And just as suddenly their feet aren't touching the solid ground anymore, and his hands are traveling to places they should have never been. _

_All that's left is him and her and the bed and that damned radio humming its static tune. _

_He's drowning in her, all of her underneath his finger tips, watching her body set ablaze by his touch; they are fire and ice melting into one. Skin to skin, slick with sweat that shouldn't be possible in this frost, he's completely lost._

_He's pretty sure he has no idea what this means, what should and shouldn't be here, but of one thing he's pretty sure: he wants to kiss this girl forever._

_As the song dies, the figures fades away into blankness, bed crumbles to ashes, and all he hears is her moan his name._

His eyes flutter open once more to the morning light, and look across to the sleeping girl in his arms, pretty sure that it's actually her there now. He shuts his eyes tightly, trying to grip on to sleep once more, desperate to go back to that hazy memory and hang on for dear life. Despite all the things he's had to do in his life, this reality is frightening him to his very core, and the longer he abates this, her, where they landed last night, the longer he can dream up scenarios of "could be's..." and "maybe's…".

...

He'll dream of her that morning and wonder if maybe it's always been her.

She'll dream of him that morning and wonder when it became him.

...

She can feel his arms encircling her in this tiny bed, his frame pressed against her own. His even breathing tickles her neck and she's torn, to run away or to stay here forever. She's pretty damn sure she thinks too much, but she doesn't want to think about this, just to base it on instinct, her internal intuition. So she pulls the heavy quilt up a bit around them both, and slips into light slumber in the warmth of the morning sunlight and his strong arms.

_Warmth. Burgundy and gold blanket the room, and she's sitting on the plush velvet couch once more, books piled atop the table, quills and parchment scattered all about. All's she know is she's warm, curled up in the corner of the couch, watching the firelight dance on Ron's face as he makes some insidious joke. His eyes crinkle with laughter and turn to her. She's smiling like the damn Cheshire cat and she can't seem to stop. They're closer than she remembers, and she's leaning in to kiss him, like her body is moving at its own accord._

_Right before her, as he leans towards her, his eyes fade into a brilliant green, red hair smolders into dark brown ashes, and as she kisses him, she's not quite sure she's kissing Ron anymore._

_The Gryffindor common room melts around them into the whiteness of the tent. She pulls slightly away, looking up at him, as he swoops his head to run his lips places they should never have been; she feels no instinct to push him away. She should, she should, but can't seem to. She can't let go of this boy, because that's just what he is, what they were, just a boy and a girl and a bed._

_Her hands seem so small on his broad shoulders, as they dance upon his skin. She's not sure when their clothes disappeared or when it became so stark and real, but all she can feel is them falling and falling further from that line._

_His name escapes her lips when it's all just too much, and somewhere in that dark tent, in the middle of God knows where, all alone, something irrevocably changed. His lips fall upon hers once more, and she's lost in forgetting with him._

Her eyes snap open at a particularly loud gust of wind against the tarp; the war has made her too light of a sleeper. She can still feel his arms there, and she's not sure why, but she shifts a little closer to him, never wanting to face this. Dear God, she doesn't know why this all happened, but she's not ready to look reality in the face.

...

He'll stay asleep that morning to remain in the comforting arms of his own imagination.

She'll stay asleep that morning to hide from the frightening arms of her own reality.

...

She stirs under the quilt, not sure when sleep overtook her again, and entirely feels empty. No arms hold her warm, no breathe tickles her neck, and she's never felt more alone. Sitting up slowly, she holds the sheets up to her, surveying the tent. She tells herself it's because they were asleep for so long that they could've easily been caught. Maybe she's looking to reassure herself this is real. Maybe she's looking to find him.

Ironically enough, he's sitting on the step, fully clothed with his head hanging in his arms that rest upon his shaking knees. Her rational thought is screaming at her to get dressed and go out on watch, but her feet are already moving towards him, body clad in the thick quilt that just an hour ago housed both of them. Sitting down next him, she becomes aware of how long ago that words were spoken between them that weren't spoken at the height of passion. Maybe they didn't need words anymore, but she'd become so accustomed to talking, thinking things through that she doesn't know what to do.

"Harry…" and it sounds all to forced, but his green eyes settle up on her. His eyes are exhausted, as they search her face for some sort of answer that they both need. He's been thinking so hard, for so long to explain this, them.

She wants to comfort him like she used to; she wants him to comfort her like he used to. They would talk, above all else that was something they always had, but it had gone up in smoke in this damned tent. Now she couldn't even say his name without it coming tumbling out of her mouth like a stranger's, unsure. It's as if she's not sure he's the same boy sitting beside her right now, staring at her with those burning green eyes, that had saved her countless times. That she had saved countless times. Now they needed to save each other, but neither was sure where to start.

She wanted it to be like olden times, where she'd wrap her arms around him and listen to his problems, where he'd pull her against his shoulder and let her shed her tears. She wants to comfort him like his best friend, but she can't help but find herself doing the exact opposite. Her hand gently slides up to rest upon his cheek once again; just to make sure he's focusing on her she rationalizes, because she's going to fix this, like she always does, with her quick mind and sharp words.

She can't explain why no words would come, just like last night, and why her lips aren't forming sharp words, but pressed against his once more.

If she were to rationalize her action, she'd say she just couldn't stand to see him like that, she just wanted to help him. Maybe she wanted to help herself figure out this mess that was rapidly becoming them. Maybe if she kissed him again, she'd find there was something there that always had been, she'd find something between them much stronger than friendship. Maybe she'd find some rationale behind why she kissed him last night, why his face is replacing Ron's in her dreams.

Maybe she just forgot what it was like to kiss her best friend, alone out in the wilderness, with a humming radio singing a melancholy tune.

All she truly knows is it's glorious, and there upon that step, she wishes she could kiss this boy, the wrong boy, forever.

...

He'll sit there wondering why she kissed him.

She'll sit there wondering why she can't stop kissing him.

...

The sun has risen high in the sky, as she steps outside, clad in dark jeans, a thick winter sweater, and tall chestnut boots. The fresh air cleanses her while she walks out to the outskirts of the barriers, staring off into the dead forest, her feet crunching the frost that covers parts of the ground that have to yield under the sun's bright glare. She wants to stop thinking about him, about last night, about this morning, about her apparent lack of self control. Her head tilts upwards towards the clear blue sky, eyes drifting closed, and waits. For what exactly she's not sure, but she waits nonetheless.

Maybe she just needs to slow down and wait, without his burning eyes and tempting hands.

He watches her from the opening of the tent, as she stands so very still in this black and white forest, the only live thing for miles and miles. Under normal circumstances, he would say she looked slightly absurd, but this whole situation is what neither of them expected, so maybe a little absurdity will help cure them.

He can't remember the last time he said her name, even said anything to her; he finds his lips have been a little preoccupied with all things concerning her. His eyes shut to her image and he turns back into the tent with the pretense of making food. He knows she'll

come eventually, if only he knew what to say when she does.

...

He'll wait for her to come back.

She'll wait for an explanation.

...

I realize there has been little dialogue yet, but the pervasive silence will be broken soon. A review would much appreciated.


	3. Broken Words in the Darkness

A/N: Some dialogue. A short chapter, I apologize in advance, but I felt I needed to write a little something. Not my best work by far.

…

He watches her in front of the sunset praying for her to come to him.

She watches the sunset praying for the darkness not to come to them.

…

She can't remember how long she's been standing in this one spot looking out towards the nothingness surrounding them. She can't figure out what she's trying to get out of this, what answers she's trying to squeeze from the nothingness. But as she stands rooted in this spot, watching the hazy orange fade into a thick navy night sky, all she knows that she can't do is avoid that damned tent, him, and the inevitable conversation. The funny thing is she's the one who should be forcing him to talk, wanting to hash it all out rationally and come to a sensible conclusion, but she's the one now who's running as fast as she can from all the worlds, all the rationale, all the conclusions.

The navy blue is rapidly outrunning the dim orange as it flickers along the edge of the horizon, and she finds herself standing frozen in front of the white tarps, flapping haphazardly in the light wind. She pulls it slightly back and steps into the soft glow of the tent.

He's lying on his bed, stretched out with one hand behind his head, and it's like she's never actually seen him before. Maybe she's absolutely mental but she swears he was never that breathtaking before, but he's lying there with his vibrant green eyes closed, and she can't find her breath anymore.

His head turns towards her, eyes fixated on her as he pulls his lean body off the bed, swinging his legs over the edge into a sitting position. His eyes lead to the space beside him before jumping back to her own, an invitation.

Before the debate can ensue in her head, she's already made it across the room, and slipped into the space beside him.

The silence wraps around them like the wind winding around the tent. She turns her head to the side to watch him and sees his lips muttering silent words. His eyes slide over to her and catch her gaze.

"Hermione…", her name drops so easily from his lips. She realizes how much she's missed the warmth of his voice.

"Harry, I…" and her words fail her once again. She's honestly sick of this confusion; it's like she can't see past the thick haze in her brain from that night, like all her words are locked behind their moans and sighs of that night.

He's watching her, willing her to say something, but she's just looking back at him wide-eyed, helpless.

"Look, I'm not the one here who's good with words Hermione. I mean, you're the one who always has an explanation. I just…I don't know what to say." His eyes are glued to his wringing hands, as she sits there paralyzed.

"I…" she breathes with a pained sigh, and God, she just wishes she could just say something, because he's now turned again to look at her.

"Hermione, come on, just…explain this. Explain us, here. Tell me I'm going mental in this damned tent. Tell me I'm just imagining all of this confusion and tension. Tell me there's a rational reason for all of this." Somewhere in his rushed words, he got up off the bed, and she's now staring up at his pleading eyes, her words still frozen on her tongue.

"Hermione, damn it, say something!" His yell shatters the silence blanketing the forest.

"I don't know what to…" she mumbles, words thawing on her lips at his fiery words.

"What Hermione? You don't know what to what?" He yells again, like a breathing flame, and her words become water on her tongue, slipping from her lips like a waterfall.

"I don't know what to say! Damn it Harry, why am I supposed to be the one to fix this? God, you expect me always to fix everything, to have all the explanations, but I don't have any! I just want everything back to the way it was, before this, before Ron leaving, before the war. I just want everything to be simple again, but no, we have to be in this damned tent, looking for damned things we can't find, finding damned things we can't destroy. We are failing Harry! I am so sick of being out here. I just…I just…" tears slide down her flushed cheeks as she races to catch her breath.

"Hermione…" his voice has dropped back down to a soft whisper and he's kneeling in front of her now.

"I can't explain it."

"Maybe we don't need an explanation. We are just us."

"But Harry, we're…"

"We're what?"

"Not the same anymore," she squeaks out. His hangs slightly, the weight of her words dropping around them.

No static tune on the radio hums in the background to ease the silence, which deafens all around their frozen forms.

…

He'll hold her that night to brush her tears away.

She'll hold him that night to remember that those tears were real.

…

He feels her press herself into his chest, her breathing rhythmic against his tear stained shirt. His arms are locked around her, like he's never held anything so precious before in his life. He knows they're real, that there's something here that's real between them, but this faint, flickering hope stretching between them lives only in the darkness of this tent. Day has never seen this hope, and he's afraid it never will.

He already knows what will happen in the morning as the light pours into the tent; he'll watch her extricate herself from his arms, and walk away into the light, scattering pieces of his broken heart he never knew she held with each step towards flap of the tent.

Maybe she'll look back in years from now at this time, these nights, as nothing, crazy anecdotes from their journey that she'll store away in her memories with a reminiscent smile as she slides into Ron's arms.

Maybe she'll look back and see what could have been, see them as some sort of broken, perfect pair, and feel her heart break with regret.

But he's pretty damn sure he knows what he'll see when he looks back, his greatest desires wrapped into memories of dark nights holding her, and he'll grasp the memories so tight his heart will break all over again, in her hands.

He hears he sigh softly, and his arms tighten instinctively as realization strikes hard. Somewhere in the past six and so years, he fell for her. They were never on that line, tip-toeing together along their relationship, because he can feel his feet firmly planted on one side of that line, and it feels all too familiar. He has watched her all these years edging along the line above, with him below, willing her to fall to him.

…

In the darkness, he'll find his place on one side.

In the darkness, she'll accidentally fall to one side.

In the darkness, they'll collide.

…

Reviews appreciated.


	4. A Cup of Tea and Firewhiskey

A/N: So slow at updating, but some inspiration hit and thus came this. Not sure where this story is going, but that's part of the fun of it all.

They've fallen together in this melodramatic routine of tears and confusion surrounded by misery, abandonment and the soft static hum of a radio. They dance around each other in broken harmony in the world confined in the tent that feels all too foreign to be real.

...

He's pretty sure she's trying the forgetting approach to their predicament; after the tears and the emotions and the confusion and the everything else, she deflated in front of him. From the moment she extricated herself from his arms, ignoring warm feeling plaguing the pit of her stomach from his grasp, she's been moving through the day as if nothing has happened in the past couple days. No shift in the paradigm of their relationship, just her running around, per normal, fretting about this horcrux and that place.

She makes tea, and he does nothing but stare dumbly at the red porcelain cup in front of him because it's really all too odd. She smiles and chats about nothingness; it's a fake smile, but a smile nonetheless and he can't remember the last time he made her smile but it feels like half a million years ago. He's careful to watch her and attempt to react according to this new, or old in actuality, protocol. Her gaze lingers on everything but his eyes, and he's entirely desperate to ask her what caused this, but this platonic and useless chit-chat is much better than the thick silence that had invaded this little white tent days earlier, and he's eager to stave off the infantry even if just to talk idly about the type of tea bag floating in his red porcelain cup.

She rises from the table they've been sitting at, and he notices her hair still mussed from the bed the night before, but aside from that, he finds no trace of himself or their nights on her. Like their escapes have been rinsed away with the gentle rain of reality that seeped itself into the tent.

She turns to him and catches his staring gaze, "I've been thinking about this, and I think it might be best if we just pretend all of this didn't happen. I realize we aren't exactly the same anymore," her gaze dropped to her wringing hands, "but maybe overtime we'll find our way back to that relationship. For now, we can just…forget."

The last is uttered so softly he has to strain to hear it. He can feel his stomach drop and it's like he's watching her from his side of the line fall farther and farther away from him. He takes a slow sip from his red porcelain cup and feels the warm liquid burn its way down his throat as she wait expectantly for his reply. If he thinks about it, maybe he's trying to drown her out of his heart, or melt the breaking pieces of his heart back together, but all he knows is that the soothing tea is dulling the sting of her words.

The warmth of her touch is now being mimicked by the tea as he drinks again slowly. He peers up at her expectant look; "that's fine Hermione," he simply states and watches a confused and mixed expression pass across her feature for such a short time he's not quite sure he saw anything. If he could've stared longer, he would've seen something akin to both disappointment and contentment, a feeling so undefined that she would stay up for the next couple nights analyzing exactly what the hell it was.

She'd spend those nights in her own bed, huddled under the quilts wondering when it became so cold at night, with him outside in the frost standing guard. If she was truthful, she'd admit she missed the warmth he provided in the night; the skin-on-skin contact was actually a quite practical way of keeping warm in the bitter cold she would rationalize. If she was really truthful, she'd admit she missed his warm skin for a lot more than just it's practicality. If she was completely truthful, she'd admit she just simply missed him.

But she'd find no truth in the night, let none slip into her thoughts and her mind turned over and over the emotions she felt when he muttered those three words over tea that morning.

He still sits there holding the smooth cup in his cold hands, sipping the tea rhythmically, as she stands watching him. He looks up once more.

"Do we have anymore tea?"

...

He'll drink the tea to save his heart.

She'll drink the tea to avoid exposing hers.

...

It's been three days, seventy-two hours, four thousand three hundred and twenty minutes since they spoke about it, mentioned it, alluded to it, thought about it. Alright the last one isn't exactly the truth, and in actuality is about as far from it as is possible. All she can do is think about it, and she's pretty damn sure by now that this plan, her grand idea that sprung from her tear-stained head as she lie in his arms that night, is absolutely backfiring and completely the wrong way to handle this situation.

She's not sure when he started looking this appealing, but for her she can pinpoint the exact moment he seemed to come into focus. She finds herself feeling like a giddy little thirteen year-old girl fantasizing about her dream guy. It's sickening and exhilarating at the same time and she's tempted to gauge out her eyes just to stop herself from staring. She's beginning to think her willpower was thrown out with their platonic relationship that night.

They are out in the forest together, putting up protection spells for the night, and he's recounting one of his old quiddich stories to fill the empty air, and she watches his green eyes light up and it's like she can see the brooms flying in his eyes, zipping and swerving around each other as he gets wrapped up so completely in his story. She can hear his laugh spark up from one of the blunders he recounts, a playful smile spreading across his lips and his brilliant green eyes crinkling slightly. She's absurdly transfixed by him.

"Hermione, are you even listening to me anymore?" he asks jokingly, as he pulls out his wand to help with the spells. "I mean, I realize quiddich is quite boring to you but you could at least try to pretend to listen a little better. I mean seriously, you could be eating flies right now and not even know it." He laughed softly and turned to her, hand loosely in his hand.

She closes her mouth which she didn't realize was open until now, and quickly averts her eyes, focusing instead on the spells at hand. She's pretty sure it looks like she's been slapped across both cheeks right now, so she mutters sorry and lets him continue his story.

...

They are sitting and eating and conversing and everything is normal. Somewhere they found a bottle of firewhiskey; she doesn't know how it found its way into her never-ending bag but he's entirely sure she purposely put it in there to ease their sorrows. He's knocking back another shot of the liquid as it burns its way down much more vehemently than the tea did. She's laughing as he flushes from the heat and picks up a piece of food still lingering on his plate push aside from dinner.

He smiles crookedly at her, asking "what exactly do you find so funny Ms. Granger?" Her laughter has developed from a soft chuckle to an unstoppable berate of laughs as she collapses against the wooden table. She giggles wildly with her cheek pressed against the wood grain.

Lifting her head up, smiling like a drunk Cheshire cat, she replies, "you know, Mr. Potter, I'm honestly not quite sure," but it comes out broken by small giggles.

"Oh really, because I think it might have something to do with the five or so shots you seem to have already downed," he says, watching her down number six.

"Excuuuuse me, but are you insinu-insineuat-insig-insining, oh god what is that word…oh well, you know what I mean, that I am currently drunk?" A hiccup springs up during her last syllable, causing any credibility that remained, little as it was, to dissipate entirely. "Oh dear god," she says raising her hand up to her mouth, "I think I am drunk."

"Oh really? And it took the great Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of her generation, _this _long to realize this?" He's smiling just as wide as her now, waiting for her to retaliate as he drowns another shot.

"Hey! You know I'm verrrrrrrry bright…like as smart as…as something…like really smart, you know…you know? Oh god, I'm making no…uhhh…oh bullocks…ugggg," and her head falls back on to the table.

He's smirking at her intensely watching her mutter to herself unintelligible nonsense.

"Harry?" she squeaks, face still pressed to the table.

"Yes 'Mione?"

"How come you're not being as drunk as me right now?" And he can tell she's proud of herself for getting out a semi-coherent and semi-grammatically correct sentence.

"Well, I'm pretty sure I can handle this stuff a little better than you," he says tipping the glass again to his lips. He knows it's only fair that he not let her suffer alone in her deeply inebriated state, so he downs another, and feels the alcohol sink into his stomach. He sets the glass down once more on the table and notices her face no longer is pressed against the wood. He watches amusedly as she attempts to stand, wobbling terribly and hysterically all together.

"Exactly where do you think you're going?" He asks with a grin now plastered to his plastered face.

"I'm going to wallllllllk it off…" she says convincingly as she stumbles towards the other side of the tent.

"Oh come on, 'Mione you're just going to hurt yourself." He pulls himself up from the chair, more of an effort than he anticipated, and walks just as drunkenly towards her. Grabbing her shoulders to steady both of them, he looks down at her and they just stand there stupidly smiling at each other. He's not sure when the firewhiskey made it from his stomach to his brain, but he's got eight shots screaming in his head to kiss her right there and then. Maybe it wasn't just the liquor talking, but he can't tell the difference at the moment, cause she's smiling up at him with those chocolate brown eyes that even Willy Wonka could get lost in and it's like the reality that's been permeating the tent for the past three days has floated away with their sobriety and there they are, left in their fantasy world of dancing and touching and sighing.

He's lost the capacity for rational thought, although it's not as if he had much to begin with, that was always her department and his little amount is drowning somewhere in his mind under eight shots of firewhiskey. His hand is running its course from her shoulder to get tangled in her curls and he's suddenly kissing her, again, as hard as he can.

He can't remember her tears that nights; he can't remember their talk the next morning; he can't even remember their six years of platonic friendship. All he remembers, and cares to, is the smooth curve of her back as their bodies press into each other, the taste of her tongue against his, the soft sighs breaching the cavity of her mouth, the feel of her hands running along his skin. Moans escape her lips as his hands travel her body, tongues emblazoned in melodic battle as they try to drown in each other.

There's nothing really romantic about them, even as he pushes her down on to the bed as he's now done far too many times in the past week. They grab for each other, making sure the other's there, and flesh meets flesh in a sin only known to those who've tasted it. Firewhiskey coursing through their veins in place of blood, they are nothing short of electric, and she's screaming, and he's panting, and their platonic relationship lays once again crumpled on the floor with their discarded clothes.

...

He'll find heaven in her that night, drowned in firewhiskey.

She'll let him so her heaven that night, drowned in firewhiskey.

...

Oh review, will you?


	5. Dear Sun, Illuminate All

A/N: I had severe writer's block until an hour ago. I don't know where this is going - I'll let it guide me where it wants to go - so bear with me. Too many stories move too fast, and it feels as if everything happens in one day and suddenly A and B are saying I love you after one kiss. I feel I probably jumped the sex gun too soon, but everyone has to start from somewhere, and maybe the end is just as good of a beginning.

...

If she thinks about it, it all started with a light tough and brush of skin, a soft offer and warm words, a singing radio and the feeling of freedom for the first moment in a long while. There was a joyous hum that encased them, a blissful cocoon in that tent where everything else fell away. His hands held her. His laugh cured her. And as she twirled around that night, she felt free.

She wishes they had never stopped dancing, swaying, twirling, and moving with each other to the melancholic croaking of the old radio; if she could go back, she'd never stop. She'd hold on forever to a memory already moving past her, so damn bittersweet as she sways there, clinging on to him, as the happiness of that moment is spoiled by the realization she'll never be as happy as this again.

If they'd never stopped dancing, if the music had never stopped buzzing through them, then maybe they wouldn't be here now.

If she thinks about it, which she tries so damn hard not to, she thinks the silence kills them.

...

If he thinks about it, it's really ironic, all of it. She'd kill him if she knew he was thinking like this about such a serious predicament they seem to have cemented themselves in, but he honestly feels his mind chuckle at the relative absurdity of the situation. With everything else going on around him, with death lurking around every corner of his life, all he can focus on is the girl tip-toeing across the ground, carefully trying to not wake him as she flits around clad only in his button-up shirt.

He thinks she looks better at this moment than at any other point where she happened to come into his view. Sure she wasn't as innocent looking, big doe-eyes staring down at him, as at the Yule Ball with her delicate dress and young face made up. And she wasn't as striking as at Bill and Fleur's wedding, the vibrant red fabric warring beautifully with her pale skin and golden brown curls. But she'd never looked more like herself than at this moment, golden hair disheveled, tumbling around her shoulders so out of control. His shirt hangs skewed on her thin shoulders, much to large, as its hem brushes her mid-thigh. She's pushed the sleeves up around her elbows as she makes tea.

He watches her shift from side to side, flexing her small feet and almost bouncing in place as she waits for the whistle of the kettle. He thinks she looks like a little girl, nervously moving in place with her toes pointed towards each other, and nothing like the woman who constantly corrects him and saves his life.

The kettle whistles loudly, alarming her, and he watches her amusedly try to silence it before it wakes him up from his presumed sleep. Her fretting is almost to amusing to bear and he cant help but bite back a low laugh.

"'Mione," he says audibly, and the kettle flies scared into the air, only to land back on the ground with a loud thud; the boiling water runs along the ground, escaping the metal prison. And she's jumping up to avoid stepping in the water.

"Shit, Harry…" she's not breathing quite right just yet but he's pretty damn sure her wants to wring her hands around his neck at this moment. Or curse him into oblivion, which ever strikes her fancy.

"Someone's a bit jumpy, huh?" He's smirking at her, sitting up in the bed, clad in only a pair of boxers.

"Oh yes, very funny. Just sit there smirking your arse off while I nearly spill boiling water all over myself, which by the way was going to be for tea for _you_ but that's now pretty much blown to hell. I mean seriously Harry, you don't think you could've found a better way to inform me that you had decided to wake from your beauty sleep." She scowls, scurrying around the tent trying to find her wand to dry up the water.

"Oh come on, don't you think you're being a tad snippy this morning."

"Well near-death experiences tend to do that to a girl." She retorts before she hears her words.

He doesn't know whether to laugh or give into the silence that her words have created.

He hears a laugh escape her throat and she looks at him, smiling slightly. "Okay, well maybe I'm being a bit overdramatic."

He returns her smile, "just a bit."

If he thinks about it, in this tent, they are more confined than they had ever been at school, by nature, by their journey, by their fear, but he swears, at this moment, they've never been more free.

...

She sits cross-legged on one end of the bed, feet tucked underneath, as she cautiously sips the burning tea. His eyes watch her from behind his glasses, and she feels the hot tea rush down her throat. The warmth of the sunlight bathes the tent in a glow of near iridescent quality. Their laughter battles with the heavy silence that has captured them, but here on this bed, sipping tea and reminiscing about their embarrassments, failures, and they're laughing. It feels so damn foreign.

She bends over at the waist, face burying into the covers as her body shakes with laughter. He's leaning back, feeling the laughter rumble through his chest.

He swears a part of him, a part unaffected by the death and destruction that seems to define his life, never grew up; it's still ten and thinks doing things like tickling your best friend until she unceremoniously falls off the bed are both perfectly acceptable and a good idea. At this moment, he wishes that facet of himself had just shut up because she's now glaring at him something fierce and he's shaking from laughter.

She's sure that's how they ended up how they did, in tangled laughing limbs. A carefree afternoon, after all that was what this has started as, a quest for some unattainable normalcy, contentment, freedom – a freedom not previously explored. In their contented heap of laughter, she sees the light catch his green eyes revealing a spark she hadn't seen in so, so long, and she thinks for just a brief moment that this, them, could work.

At this moment, bathed in sunlight and laughter in their cocoon of white tarp, they are most pure, all imperfections washed softly away, and she thinks it would be so cliché to kiss him right now, but realization halts her lips.

They only exist in the dark, in the shadows of the moon under the hum of a broken radio and its so profoundly unsettling. This light –this damn, damn light – shatters and repairs them at once, because here they are what they are _supposed _to be. Platonic.

She never imagined the word would taste so bitter in her mouth, but here, in this moment, she thinks they've upset some sort of balance holding the semblance of their confusing lives together. The two of them are tipping the scale, and she's not sure she's quite ready to fall.

So they lay there, completely entangled but in every way they haven't been for so long, bathed in the all-seeing sun.

...

He finds himself on a rock – well, not just a rock, rough and jagged, but an edge; he cant remember when they found water or when the sun decided to grace them with its warm presence, but he's damn well not going to waste it.

She's bent over a book, as always, and he wonders if she's ever trying to see through it, like if she stares just right it'll whisper to her its secrets. But he can't hear any words, and their journey is becoming more and more frustrating with every moment. His mind wanders back to the water below, and it's like there's some compulsion drawing him in, away from this earthly tread and into something safe; an all consuming darkness to which he's become far to attached.

And then his brain can't find his feet and his lungs can't find air.

It's like ice cutting through him all the way to his soul which has probably already frozen, and there's numbness and darkness and nothing. No weights, no journeys, no sacrifices, and he'll just float their for eternity in his own personal darkness – innocence that he's been running towards all his life with arms stretched out. As his head breaks though the ceiling of the icy water, his numb ears string with her shrieks. She's standing above him atop the edge, hair blowing every which way, with the most fearful expression he's ever seen. Her fear's icy fingers reach all the way to his heart, and he really now is numb.

His limbs move him, surprisingly, towards land, and he heaves himself and the gallons of freezing water he's accumulated up to the top of the small cliff. To be honest, he knows he extraordinarily lucky the first thing he wasn't met with was a slap across his frozen pink cheek. But he just lays down in the dimly green grass next to her book, basking in the warm heat of the sunlight. She sit back down, cross-legged, softly fingering the worn creases of the book.

She should be damn furious, but somewhere inside fear had paralyzed every other thought, and now, as it loosens its taught grip, she feels nothing but relief.

"Harry…why'd you – why would you…?"

"I just wanted – to do something." It's definitive, and not at all the tone she expected; there's a light airiness to it reminiscent of their earlier laughter.

"You know that was rightfully stupid, don't you?" It's her bossy tone, and they may as well be back in the Great Hall sipping butterbeer because it's familiar and comforting.

"Yea, I know…." The sun dries away all the ice from him as she bends back over her book; watching her from the corner of his eye, there's the smallest of smiles stretching from cheek to cheek.

He'll let the sun dry away the ice, and think maybe this could work.

She'll let the sun dry away her fears, and think maybe this could work.

...

Review if you will.


	6. Where, Oh Where Has the Future Gone

A/N: just a little something, nothing much important but I felt that this story was being forgotten. I can't quite figure out how I want this story to progress, and I feel like there's so little action that it must be quite boring, but I want to establish their changing mind sets, because I'm planning to invigorate this story in the next chapter, hopefully.

…

He's struck by her lying there that she is gold, in every sense of the word imaginable. He sees where his mind picked up the notion, as the light dances across strands of her hair splayed haphazardly on the pillow, liquid gold; he's never been one for metaphors, that was always her forte, words and such, but he finds a million for her in that one little word.

A sharp buzz illuminates the dank white of the tent, and rushed words of terror and anguish scurry into the air from the melancholy radio no longer humming. He knows he's going mental, but he swears every word that gushes out of the radio sounds like death, death, _death. _Each one a brick lying more heavily than the next atop his shoulders, and before he consciously realizes it, he's crumbling.

He partially wishes his body had really broken into a thousand crumbled pieces, but then it might be relief wafting over him, instead of guilt and hatred and pain. He attributes a bit of the pain though to him collapsing suddenly on the floor in a decidedly uncomfortable and slightly contorted manner. But the rest of it manifests itself in every bone, crevice, inch of flesh of his body and it's like he can hear them all screaming in his ears: all "I'll never tell you…" and "I never follow you…" and "please don't…" and "I don't want to die…". He swears his ears are bleeding red but the screams are intensifying, like a choir of death in a crescendo. Words of pleading and pain bombard him and he hears "stop it, stop it! I didn't ask you all to die for me." It takes him a minute to recognize his own screams, so muddled in chorus, but it all crashes over him once more, and he sees black.

_He coughs slightly, relatively sure he got floo powder up his nose, and steps out of the fire place, dropping his coat on the couch next to him as he notices the appetizing smell. He takes it all in, the soft rug under his feet, the couch piled with pillows upon pillows of various shapes, the worn wooden table stained a chestnut brown with nicks around the edges and floral patterned plates atop. _

_He can feel his feet move on their own accord, skillfully maneuvering him around the room, and there's this smell assaulting him forcefully, warm and enveloping, and his tongue's nearly jumping out of his mouth. _

"_Hello?" A sing-song voice rings out loudly and he can practically sense her before she walks into the room, light brown hair framing wind-licked skin all wrapped up in a navy coat and firmly attached to his best friend's arm, orange hair askew from the gusting weather._

_It's like he's on autopilot or something because he can hear himself conversing and nodding and laughing along but he swears he's watching from afar: watching flaming orange hair appear from the kitchen, watching Ron laugh heartily while draining another butterbeer, watching cherry lips form a tight smile when another crude joke ricochets its way through the flat. He can feel Ginny's arm snake its way around his waist, and it_'s _supposed to feel comforting and grounding and just damn right, but it's only awkward and forced and confining._

_There's wine and his friends and Ginny and a home and peace, all wrapped in a neat little bow of his forthcoming future, should he live till it, and this was his dream, his ultimate achievable desire. Together, alive, happy. He watches the neat little picture, all framed in red and gold and relief, with a sense of guilt, but it isn't possible anymore, and Ron's storming out once again and Ginny's screaming betrayal. _

_And suddenly he can feel it, feel it all: her body pressed against his spinning, hands racing like thoroughbreds, eyes dark, a touch here and a kiss there, and his picture's disintegrating before his eyes. Every touch cracks the picture just a little more, and now the picture's breaking and his future's crumbling and he's spinning wildly in an explosion he can't stop. It's thrilling and frightening and dear god…_

It's an abrupt awakening to say the least, and she's staring at him with a warring expression of concern and confusion, because he's slick with sweat, gasping loudly, head still reeling from pain, but all he can feel is heat coursing through him at a gallop. As she continues to stare worriedly at him, he curses his stupid tendency for extremely vivid dreams, because it's all at once painful, perplexing, and slightly embarrassing.

"Harry…" slips softy off her lips and it's sounds hollow. He can't hear the wind hiss against the tent, nor the tea kettle whistle in the background. The radio seems to be holding its tongue for the moment and the only movement there appears to be is the slight swinging of the Horcrux she holds dangling from her hand, ripped from his neck only minutes before.

"Are you…"

"I'm fine."

"But you…"

"I'm fine." This time it sounds more finite, he's sure of it. He's still laying on the ground, in a deeply uncomfortable position he realizes, feeling utterly alone. There's no wind cocooning their tiny little tent, no radio buzzing in the air sounds of both horror and ease. There's just her soft breathing, sounding much less comforting than it did just nights before as he held her. His eyes close shut and he sees red cheeks and streaming tears and orange hair. It's really just all too much.

It's an abrupt movement, once again, and he's suddenly on his feet running out of the tent.

…

She sits cross-legged on the bed, wrapped in a quilt, reading the book for what seems like the three-thousandth time. The answers have to be hidden somewhere between the ink and the page, these useless words just filling up space and marring the true meaning; they are there, she know it. Because they have to be. For all of them. For her. For Ron. For him, really truly for him because she can't bear to watch it anymore. He's ripping apart at the seams and all she wants to do is sew him back together with answers from this pointless book and sound logic and hope, but all she seems to do nowadays is tug those seams further apart with fluttering touches and midnight kisses. But nothing's coming together, and she's just so damn frustrated and angry and god knows what else. Because this, _this, _is not how it was supposed to be; sure, she knew it wasn't going to be easy, but at least they were supposed to be a team. The one bright point of their pain was that it was shared, but he left, and their team, their trio, cracked.

She wants so desperately to believe this is all his fault, all of this. That he drove her into Harry's arm that night, but really, she's the one who took a hammer to their team, smashed them into a million little pieces. What was once cracked is now dust.

Pulling herself from her thoughts, she finds the book sitting half open on the ground near the opening of the tent. Hands slipping through her hair, she leans back on to the bed, wrapping the quilt tighter around herself.

_He's standing in the large doorway, shinning brighter than the sun on a clear day and looking more debonair than she can ever remember. Slipping out of a cloud of white bedding, her feet find the warm hardwood and take her over to the wooden chair where a soft blue silky dress currently lays. She lets the fabric fall over her as she makes her way over to him. He threads his hand into her hair, shinning like liquid gold in the sun, and she leans into him, letting her head fall against his shoulder. _

_The sun settles down on the streets below, with people rustling about in a slowed, languid pace – men buying pink peonies for their lovers, children running with red balloons chasing them down the crowded streets, women picking vibrant oranges from a stand on the corner. Horns honk and tires screech, laughter rings out loud only to be broken by muted yells, and it's simplicity and normalcy at its finest. _

_She looks up to find his green eyes and whispers sentiments of love. He kisses her softly and lets her sigh into him._

_There's an ease that wraps around them, and it's comfortable and beautiful and she wants to hold on to it forever. There's nothing but her and him and a soft warm breeze and a suggestion for lunch as he pulls her out of the room._

_It's not her future, nor did she even know it was a desire of hers, but she wants it all the same. Wants him like she didn't even know. It all feels so far away, like in another dimension they exist like this, in love and simply happy. He's smiling like she's rarely ever seen and she feels so unconflicted it's nearly magical. _

_As she sips from her large tea cup in the bright sun of the cafe, she decides upon never waking. _

…

He sees it now, their planned futures disintegrating around them.

She can't see it now, for there's a new future clouding her eyes.

…

A/N: As always, reviews make my day.


	7. Of Seventeen Wishes and Magic Bunnies

A/N: it's nothing ground-breaking, earth-shattering, or any other type of immense movement, but it's a bit of fluff, at the end, to break a sad story up into something more palatable. It's been a while, and I'm not sure where this story is going, but hopefully, you like this.

He's not entirely sure what his problem is, but he's shooting their invisibility to hell by burning any leaf that comes in the path of his wand; he just wants to do _something._ Find something. Destroy something. Learn something. Basically anything that doesn't have to do with her and the damned tent. It's all moot; with her, his head's gone all fuzzy and reality is slipping away piece by piece, dissolving into this brilliant fantasy of her and him and forever. Without her though, he'd probably be lying in a ditch somewhere being tortured to near death by Bellatrix and her extraordinarily annoying insanity – whether it'd be her cruel curses that would cause his death or himself shoving his wand through his ears just to stop from listening to her, he's not sure, but it's not a reality he's willing to accept just to arrest his hormones.

"Incendio…" and roaring head of fire engulfs the leaves that thus far had managed to escape his frustration. Bursts of orange dance frenzied across the ground as the wind upsweeps a few flaming leaves before they crumble to ash; the wisps of the fire pull across the air, reminding him of strands of Ginny's hair in the summer breeze, illuminated by the warming sun.

He thinks he'd like to be seventeen again, like one of those muggle fairytales with the godmothers and the magic and the wishes; he's got magic, it's just no use to him in this regard.

He thinks he'd like to be seventeen and worrying about the House Cup and Quiddich, be parading around with smile streaked with mirth and youth, because they'd be on top of the world, being seventh years and all. But he has no pictures like that; even their few smiling shots are marred with some ever-present danger underneath.

He thinks he'd like to be seventeen and worrying about failing his classes and upcoming NEWTs and what the hell Snape said last class when he and Ron were trying to sneakily light Malfoy's robes on fire.

He thinks he'd like to be seventeen and worrying about how to slip out of detention for succeeding in lighting Malfoy's robes on fire, much to the dismay of Snape.

He thinks he'd like to be seventeen and worrying about how he says and does the absolutely wrong things at the wrong times and how Ginny' now not speaking to him. Again.

He thinks he'd like to be seventeen and worrying about possibly being in love with someone who's in love with his best friend.

He thinks he'd like to be seventeen and anything but worrying about dying.

She just looks so, so small. He now realizes, with some sharp clarity, that saving her that night from the troll in the bathroom stole away her youth. She forever became entangled with him and Ron and danger; so much death and danger, he chokes just thinking of it. He stripped it away, year by year, problem by problem, a piece of her youth fell from grace, ripped by his selfish hands because he _needed__her._

She sits now, outside the tent, on the rocks wrapped so tightly, and he just watches. She's normally the one watching, but time's broken him and his youthful quest for immediate action has subsided, and he thinks more now. He thinks like her, albeit in shorter words and less constructed sentences, but it's all the same in the end. Although, neither of them have been thinking too much recently and look where that's gotten them, smack dab in the middle of god-doesn't-even-know-where spending their days fruitlessly hunting for things they know nothing about and their nights hunting for solace in each other.

There's some buzzing from the radio that seems to be chained to her recently, and sleigh bells sounds of Christmas pour out briefly. It's somehow more startling to him than the names that drop out from the static speaker every hour, because this is not what Christmas should be. Not that he's expecting red and green cookies and another hand-knit sweater, but he'd not spending his potentially last Christmas standing on a rock trying not to freeze to death. It takes him only seconds to realize the irony of this thought, and the small burst of laughter seems to frighten her slightly.

There's this quizzical look in her eyes as they search him for something, for what he's not sure, but he throws his head back carelessly and lets out a louder laugh.

"Harry, are you alright?" She looks far more concerned than should be allowed at her age.

"Oh, yes, yes, I was just thinking how ironic it would be if I froze to death standing here," he says and he wishes it didn't come off quite as nonchalant, because he can just anticipate the next words poised to leap off her tongue and chastise him for humor in such poor taste.

"What?" It's startled to say the least, and he's pretty sure written out it would include about fifty questions marks after it.

"Well, I was just thinking, you know, how ironic it would be. I mean, Voldemort spends seventeen years trying to figure out how to successfully kill me, when in reality, all he had to do was make it very, very cold, and make me stand there with nothing to do."

"Harry!"

"What? I'm just saying, it would be kind of amusing: the Daily Prophet reading '_The__Chosen__One__Killed__by__…__snow__'__._" He's chuckling to himself now quite profusely, and she's glaring something wicked.

"You mean, except for the whole 'you being dead' part." With that look, it might be her glare that freezes him instead; not the best thought to have, because now he's laughing even harder and she's glaring even more, and damn this vicious, vicious circle.

"Well of course." He's still smiling at her, and he really shouldn't, because his death isn't really something he should be joking about, but this constant worry of imminent death has put his sanity on edge.

She scoffs and looks back down at her book.

"Oh, come on. You have to admit it'd be a little funny."

"No, Harry, the thought of you dying, ironic or not, doesn't quite rouse up the same amusement for me as it does for you."

"Come on 'Mione, lighten up a little."

"Harry, we have to be serious here."

"We're always serious. We always planning and running and searching. And for those few moments we aren't worrying about Snatchers or Horcruxes, we're worrying about you and me and this _thing_."

"Harry…"

"No, I'd like to stop being so damn serious. God, 'Mione, I'd just like to be careless and…"

"I get it, Harry, I really do." She closes her book softly with these small, pale hands, and he thinks back to the only other times he's noticed her hands, when they're running some sensual course all over his body, and he thinks they look different now, here outside in the light of the day. They look small and childlike; they are the hands of someone who should've never had to experience war, erase memories, know loss.

Her eyes meet his as his gaze pulls away from her innocent hands, and he moves to sit beside her.

"But, isn't there something else you could find humor in something besides your death?" It's a more commanding tone, like she's found her footing once more, and her words aren't coming out so soft and delicate anymore.

"Well, I'm sort of at a loss for inspiration here. I mean, if you haven't noticed, we're in the middle of nowhere. Would you rather I make jokes about rocks?" He's pretty sure she's going to slap him for the last comment, but he feels like being seventeen and obnoxious.

There's a light slap on his shoulder, that would've hurt more if he hadn't been wearing two sweaters and a coat, and deep glare from her. "Why yes Harry, I'd love to hear about bloody rocks."

"Come on," and he smiles at her, not a half-smile but a full one, and there's youthful mirth burgeoning behind his green eyes, and she can't help but reciprocate. His shoulder knocks playfully against hers, and they both smile down at their hands. It's young and innocent and exhilaratingly freeing.

"Do you think it would be more or less ironic if I died by getting attacked by tiny, magical bunnies?"

"As compared to the freezing to death?"

"Yeah…"

"Far more."

"I don't think it'd be that bad a way to go, you know." He's fiddling with a twig he found on the ground, and it's all very childlike.

"Getting eaten to death by bunnies sounds appealing?"

"Not eaten. I was thinking they just like pile on top of you until you suffocate."

"And that sounds pleasant?"

"Well, I mean, you'd be warm, and bunnies are soft, you know that's a plus." He's grinning at her again, but really, they haven't been this ridiculous in years.

"Well, I tell you what, the next time we run into some Snatchers, I'll just go tell them to go find a bunch of soft, magic bunnies to suffocate you with."

"Sounds like a sound plan." She's laughing now, and it feels some foreign to his ears that his heart almost breaks.

"So Harry, how else exactly would you like to die?" She's got a grin that rivals the Cheshire Cat's, and he entirely wants to kiss her right now, but he refrains, because that's not what this is about. He wants to just be right now, and kissing her would push them into something else entirely, something confusing and exhausting and ridiculously serious. So he settles for just staring at her, hopefully not too embarrassingly.

"Well, I've been thinking about…"

Yes, he thinks he'd like to be seventeen all over again, with her by his side.

A/N: review. I promise not to attack you with magic bunnies.


	8. Those Absurd Souls of Ours

A/N: this is ridiculously short, but i had an inkling to write, and so here we have this mess of prose. it's a different style than other chapters (and honestly, the style's gone schizophrenic on me), but i feel it makes a point of where Hermione is in all of this. here's a bit of character development for her (possibly out of character, but in the midst of war, insanity prevails).

...

Because somewhere in this mess (war, she knows), she becomes lovesick. There may be the storm of certain demise nipping at her heels, but all the incessant reading's gone to her head and she decides it's her turn to put pen to paper.

It's irrational, so very irrational it baffles and infuriates her, because she should be fighting the world, because it's begun to feel like that, that it's them and the world separately by a line in the sand beneath their feet, waiting (just waiting, that's all they do, are doing) for the water to wash and push the grains into the tiny crevice. If there is one thing that grounds them it's her rationality.

But what rational person sits in the middle of a war writing poetry?

…

Absurdity runs her life now. Slow and steady, her sanity seeps out her skin as his hands run invisible battle lines on her flushed flesh – since when did she stop fighting?

Every night she surrenders. Every night he wins. They're not really a battle, but they're living in a war.

...

She hears the bells, loud and present, and they ring her into some new reality. Because for him, this (_this _unmentionable thing) is so not a priority; she could make a list (the old her would have already) of everything that comes before this, and it would stretch beyond her eyes.

Because it's all just heartbreaking really, watching him run his fingers over their names brushing away the snow that sits in each dip of the carvings; his fingers, seventeen and all, should only run over flesh, warm and alive.

Death lives in a permanent residence on his fingertips, and she lets out some half-silent sob as a small piece of her soul is swallowed by his pain, by this war.

…

That absurdity that she swore only lives within her in the confines of that godforsaken tent has swarmed her, because she should (and she always does what she should) be comforting him with a carefully placed hand on his shoulder, a comforting word, just something. But frozen feet trudge on through thick shining snow to nothing. A sparse area blanketed by a canvas never touched by a single brush, pure white rolling out for meters.

It must have been beauty that caused the scene to unfold as it did. Her appreciation for this untouched (as she once was) beauty. It was too perfect – too pre-war Hermione.

She feels engulfed (she thinks by absurdity, but anger's in hot pursuit).

…

He finds her later curled inside an angel drawn in the snow.

…

"Happy Christmas."

He (still) can't wrap, and it's nice to now reality's still controlling some things. It peels apart all the same revealing a thin black leather-bound book.

"I've noticed you've been writing recently, thought you could use something better that scraps of parchment." He answers her question before she asks it (nothing new now), because he's become good at seeing her better than she can see herself. She swears her image in the mirror has become foggy.

She says thanks, embarrassingly because her mind's been somewhere else the thought of presents never occurred to her. And so she makes it up, in the only way she can (knows) now.

She lets a faint "happy Christmas" pass her lips against his ear as they tumble backwards on to the cot.

…

She's only seventeen.

She thinks if her parents could see her now, they would be horrified and ashamed that their strong, rational, virtuous daughter has become this loose girl (she can't quite bring herself to say slut), that her virtue became nothing but a casualty of the war.

Then again, if her parents could see her now, they would only see a stranger.

...

She doesn't know what's happened to her, but slowly watching him become more ancy, less patient, completely overwhelmed, has dragged down her soul. And he doesn't mean to, but he'll be the death of her.

If there's one thing her absurdity brought was an abrupt clarity to their future. Her rationality, the security blanket to which she clung so desperately, blinded her, because she could rationalize all she wanted about the likelihood of them coming out of this alive, but it never allowed her to see them not. She knew (so deep in her being that it frightened her) how unlikely it would be that she would ever see eighteen, but she could never see it.

Whether she liked it or not, her rationality was born from her innocent childhood self and believed intrinsically in happily ever after. Because good beats evil, every war, every time.

And in the haze of her slowly slipping sanity, dying soul, she could herself on the ground, eyes absent of light. And the war would press on, because it wasn't her war, her fight, her anything, yet she'd given her everything.

It is then, as she lies on the dry ground meters from the tent, on watch, that she concedes. Her life may be as absurd as humanly possible.

…

She makes up her face every morning so he does not see her crumbling. Because this lovesick, self-sacrificing, soul crushing path she's following leads to only one ending.

So she smiles and apparates away with him every time, a tiny fleck of her soul gracing each patch of earth they've slept on.

He repeatsrepeatsrepeats something about knowing in his gut, his _soul, _that they'll find them there – in every new spot, like the newness washed away (just for a moment) his frustration and lack of hope. Because they _have to. _

…

She leaves one of her (god-awfully bad) poems behind when they apparate the next time right next to her sanity.

...

A/N: so angsty and probably a tad pretentious, but alas, one of those moods. please review (although possibly skirt around my very liberal use of punctuation, the rules of such I've never cared for).


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